


si ça ne vous dérange pas trop (a little clearer)

by gravityinglass



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I have no excuse?, implied abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravityinglass/pseuds/gravityinglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleanor’s a lot stronger than anyone gives her credit for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	si ça ne vous dérange pas trop (a little clearer)

**Author's Note:**

> This started from me listening to Rascal Flatt’s No Reins and coming up with these tags on tumblr: #this is eleanor leaving behind all the shit this fandom has thrown at her #and leaving behind louis who has always ALWAYS been in love with someone else #first hannah #and then harry #and she’s finally got the strength to realize that even though she loves him she’s leaving and it also spun from me being pissed off at people telling me I couldn’t write a story without a romantic interest and that I couldn’t write a story about Eleanor because she didn’t have enough depth.
> 
> This is a giant fuck you to people who told me I couldn’t, basically. Don’t tell me what can’t do, because I will do it and you will regret it. End of story.
> 
> Anyway, this is what happens when I listen to Rascal Flatt's No Reins and Taylor Swift's 22 and I don't expect anyone to read this really, but it exists so I might as well stick it here.
> 
> Also Danielle is present, this was written pre-Payzer breakup (and possibly reunion? IDEK what's going on there) so we'll just go with Payzer is a terminally on-again-off-again relationship.

_—_  
all she’s ever felt is held back, she says, ‘it’s kinda nice to hear myself laugh’ she’s gonna do a lot more of that, she’s making plans and making tracks, she says ‘I gotta go and find me’, she found the strength to break free.  
—

Eleanor liked to think of herself as pretty strong. She liked to think she was good at dealing with all of this. This being his fame, and his fans, and the fact that life always seemed to revolve around Louis fucking Tomlinson.

But some days, she just wanted to kick Louis to the curb, and screw his “public image” and all the other shit he put her through. Because honestly? She loved him, she really did, but it hurt to know he loved just about everyone in the world more than her. So she wasn’t sure why he was dating her, engaged to her, planning to marry her tomorrow, when it was so clear he was in love with Harry and always would be.

Eleanor sat in the middle of her flat, the flat she was supposed to share with Louis when he really lived with Harry, and thought. She reached for her phone and started to open a text message before she realized there was no one she could send it to—all of her friends had been replaced by his friends, and she hadn’t even picked her own maid-of-honor for her own wedding. His management had stepped in and insisted it be Danielle, for his publicity, and…well, Louis had liked the idea, so she’d just gone along with it.

In fact, when she thought about it, she hadn’t done anything for  _herself_  in the past year. Not in the plans for her own wedding, not on where she and Louis went on vacation, not even on what she wore from day to day. She hadn’t chosen when she’d hung out with her friends, hadn’t chosen when she’d seen her family. He’d told her what to do, how to sit, where to go…how could she have not noticed? She’d been in training to be a psychologist for three years now, she knew all the signs, all the reasons, she knew these things by heart and could identify them in anyone else, but in her own relationship, she’d entirely overlooked it.

Well, that settled it, then. She stepped into her immaculately clean bedroom, reached under the bed for her suitcase, dumped out the things she’d packed for her honeymoon and started picking out things that were  _Eleanor_  and not  _Louis_.

Had there even been anything worthwhile or real in their relationship? Eleanor’s hands still moved as she folded blouses and dresses that had been pushed to the back of her closet, as she bundled up socks and underwear, but her mind was in another place entirely.

He’d been getting over Hannah back when they first started dating—Hannah had been his girlfriend for a year and a half. She’d given him space and time, thinking that was what he needed. But then he’d gotten closer with Harry, not with her.

Even when he proposed, it didn’t seem like it was the thing he wanted to do. It seemed like he was doing it because everyone expected him to—not because he wanted to marry her.

She collapsed to the ground in tears, realizing how everything had been so wrong, and cried in relief that she’d realized before it was too late.

When she had no more tears left to cry, she finished packing her suitcase, zipped up the bag and set to work on a plan for wrecking his wedding day.

_—_

Of course, she’d always had a flair for the dramatic, so instead of just vanishing, she decided to text her bridesmaids that she’d get to the church herself, and that someone else was helping her get ready, and then showed up in jeans and a tee-shirt, a cardigan and converse sneakers, stuff she’d worn around campus when she didn’t care.

She walked right past her bridesmaids and the groomsmen, ignoring their gasps and they way they grabbed at her to stop her from entering.

God, she couldn’t believe she’d agreed to all of this. Looking around—at the big, fancy church, at the purple orchids decorating the aisle, at the soft lilac bridesmaid dresses and the silver ties the groomsmen wore—none of it was  _Eleanor_ , not in the way a wedding should be.

She’d dreamed of her wedding ever since she was a little girl. She wanted to be married outside, on a footbridge in the forest near her grandmother’s home. She wanted to wear a soft ivory dress that only reached her knees, and have her hair tiara braided with a single rose over her ear, not an actual tiara with diamonds and a veil that brushed the tops of her feet. She wanted rainbow dresses for her bridesmaids that were the same style as her wedding gown, and she wanted the groomsmen to wear matching ties. This lilac and silver theme was giving her a headache.

In fact, there was nothing here she would have chosen for herself. Wasn’t her wedding day supposed to be the happiest day of her life?

Danielle managed to catch Eleanor right before Eleanor reached the double doors of the sanctuary.

“What are you doing, where is your dress?” she hissed. “What are you  _wearing_?”

As ever, Danielle looked perfect, making her lilac dress look stunning with the silver and diamond jewelry Eleanor knew had been a gift from Liam. Her hair was piled high on her head, and they looked so opposite, the pair of them, that Eleanor couldn’t believe no one had come to throw her out of the church yet.

“The clothes I’m going to dump Louis in,” Eleanor hissed right back. “I’m  _done_.”

Danielle shook her head. “No, you’re not. This is just…pre-wedding jitters. Look, I can send Noelle over to your flat to get your dress and we’ll just tell everyone you were having some trouble with your dress because you lost a bit of weight, and everything’ll be fine.” Danielle waved to Noelle, who hurried over and then quickly vanished out the front door of the church, presumably to go get the wedding dress. “Come on, Rose and I’ll fix your hair. God, were you really going to let Louis see you like this?” She started to tow Eleanor over to the bathroom.

Eleanor finally managed to rip free of Danielle’s iron grasp. “No. I’m not marrying Louis. I’m done. You were never my friend, and neither are any of my fucking bridesmaids. I’m done, Danielle, don’t you get it? I’m fed up with everything and I’m not subjecting  myself to a lifetime of it. I’m  _done_.”

Eleanor whirled and pushed open the double doors right as the wedding march started. Danielle was too shocked to stop her. She strolled down the aisle in her tee shirt and jeans, much to the dismay of Louis’ manager, who looked like the was about five seconds away from committing homicide.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Eleanor said loudly. Louis turned, and the wedding march came to a screeching halt. “I thought it’d be nicer to tell you in person, although God knows you don’t deserve nice.” The church was absolutely silent, everyone waiting to hear what she would say. “We’re done, you abusive asshole. Good luck with your  _boyfriend_.”

At that, she turned and walked out of the church, ignoring the reporters who shoved microphones in her face (because of  _course_  there were reporters invited to Louis Tomlinson’s wedding) and the members of the wedding party who tried to stop her.

Liam managed to grab her arm and stop her. “Why are you doing this, El?” he asked softly, quiet enough that she could barely hear him over the screaming reporters. Of all the boys, he was the one she liked the most, even if she didn’t care for his girlfriend. “Just…why?”

“Because I was sick and tired of loving someone who didn’t love me,” she replied, just as quietly. “Because there’s always going to be someone—or hell,  _something_ —he loves more. Because I’m not stupid. Because I got fed up of him controlling every part of my life. Because I’m not part of your band, his management shouldn’t have planned my own wedding for me. I mean, look around you. None of this is me. So. I’m done. Tell Louis I love him, but I’m not sorry. We’re done. If he comes looking for me, we’ll have a problem in the form of tabloids telling the world that he cheated on me and is abusive. And it won’t just hurt him. It’ll hurt  _you_. So you’d best find a way to stop him from looking for me.”

Eleanor gently pulled her arm out of his slackened grip and pushed her way to her car. She started it up and floored it, probably breaking more than a few traffic laws but not caring, high on the idea she’d just ruined Louis’ wedding the way he’d ruined her life.

She’d driven for a good half an hour before she realized she was crying—and she couldn’t just stop anywhere now, the news was going to be  _everywhere_.

Eleanor pulled over to the side of the road and rubbed away her tears, then reached into her purse and picked up the heavy silver pair of shears she’d stolen from her mum ages ago for a project. Then carefully, carefully, she started cutting off her hair, using the rearview mirror as a guide. When she was done, long locks of brown hair were scattered over the driver’s seat and the hair on her head was cut in a blunt bob. She gathered the locks in her hands, and stared at them, realizing what she’d done.

She broke down in hysterical sobs, screaming and yelling at herself, letting out all the emotions that had been building up since the night before.

It felt  _good_ , screaming until her voice was hoarse and she had nothing left to scream. She screamed for every time she realized Louis had manipulated her, for every time she realized she’d given up that bit more of her independence, berating herself for being so fucking  _stupid_.

It took an hour, but when her throat was raw and she couldn’t scream anymore, she felt better than she had in  _years_. She swept the locks of hair into an empty shopping bag she found in the backseat. Her back itched, strands of hair that hadn’t fallen with the rest caught in her shirt.

“Well, that’s that,” Eleanor said to herself, flipping down the sunvisor and checking her appearance in the mirror. Not too bad for screaming and crying for an hour.

Still, she flipped open the passenger side glove box and took out her emergency makeup kit. It soothed her nerves, doing the simple repetitive motions of putting on her makeup. Rather than the simple, understated style Louis’ stylists had taught her, Eleanor put on thick lines of eyeliner and heavy mascara, bright—almost garish—lipstick and eye shadow, making her look younger and more inexperienced with makeup.

Looking at her reflection, Eleanor thought she almost looked sixteen again. The thought made her smile.

She dug into her purse and found her phone lighting up, set on silent for the wedding. As she pulled out off the side of the road, she threw it out the window and watched as the pieces smashed onto the pavement.

Then she drove to the nearest station, unpacked her suitcase and used her honeymoon ticket (for whatever reason, she was the one who held onto them rather than Louis) to board a train to Paris. From Paris, she bought a ticket to a small town (any small town) using cash.

As she boarded the train, she laughed hysterically, realizing that this really  _was_  the end of everything. There was no going back from this.

Removed by a thousand miles and another language entirely, Eleanor could see everything that had been wrong in her life. In Gien, the town she settled in, she called herself Elle Corner and signed in a messy scrawl that no one could tell was actually Eleanor Calder.

She emptied her bank account and closed it down, then bundled her money up into the bottom of the suitcase. She didn’t have a lot—she’d gotten far too used to using Louis’ debit card—but it was enough to live for awhile. Later, she would open an account under the name Elle Corner, using the fake ID she’d had since she was 17 but hadn’t used in a long time. It would be too suspicious if she did it now.

She decided to stay in a youth hostel until she found something a little better—it wasn’t too expensive, she’d get to meet some people, and who would look for her in a youth hostel in  _Gien, France_  of all places?—and set to work looking for a job.

The first few places she looked were skeevy, but the fourth place she looked was a charming family-run bakery. The ad had been placed by an Antonia Laurent, who was looking for help during a morning shift.

It looked as good a job as any, so Eleanor shrugged and pushed open the door to apply.

Madame Antonia Laurent turned out to be a slim woman in her early fifties, with dark brown hair and floury hands.

“You are looking for a job?” she asked in musical French. Her accent was strong but understandable.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied, praying her basic French wouldn’t fail her. “I’m taking a year off from university to improve my language. I don’t know much about baking but I would like to learn.”

“You may not last long here,” Madame Laurent warned. “But you look trustworthy enough. Come, Elle Corner. Let’s see what you can do.”

Making bread was simpler than Eleanor had expected, an easy mix of ingredients but a more complex baking process. She took quickly to the work, which was a blessing.

Madame Laurent eyed her critically. “You’ll do,” she said finally. “You’ll live in the spare room in the flat above the bakery—no arguments, your shift starts at four in the morning, I won’t have you being late—with my family. Rent is part of your wages. Come, Elle Corner. Let’s get you settled in.”

The room turned out to be small but cheerful, with bright yellow walls and a neatly made bed.

“You will meet my daughter Nathalie tomorrow,” Madame Laurent told her, unzipping Eleanor’s bag and beginning to hang clothes up in the wardrobe, folding others and tucking them into drawers. “You will be friends, I think. She is the reason I need help now, so she will teach you.”

“I can do that,” Eleanor said, and unpacked herself, keeping the money bundled up inside her pajamas surprisingly well hidden.

“You are a strange girl, Elle Corner.” Madame Laurent smiled. “Welcome home. But we’ll have to do something about your hair.”

—

“Did you never wonder why I hired you, Elle Corner?” Madame Laurent  asked quietly, a week and a half after hiring “Ellie Corner.”

Eleanor didn’t blink, just continued whisking the eggs smoothly, appreciating the dull ache in her muscles after a week of surprisingly hard labor. She’d taken to helping with prep work while she had bread in the oven and another batch of dough rising. It was better than just sitting still.

“Mostly I was grateful,” Eleanor admitted. “We English have a saying…I don’t know if it will translate well, but ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’ I  mean to say…it is not my place to question your generosity.”

“I had another daughter once,” Madame Laurent said, not looking at Eleanor, instead focusing on folding her pastry dough. Eleanor set down her bowl to check on her bread. “Her name was Victore. You have the same eyes, you know. It was fate—or reincarnation. Another chance.”

“What happened to her?” Eleanor asked softly, once she’d translated Madame Laurent’s words in her head. “You said a second chance.”

Madame Laurent’s hands stopped moving and she refused to look at Eleanor. “She killed herself. Drowning. Her boyfriend—he destroyed her. She was nothing of what she’d been. And she’d been brilliant. Towards the end…I think I knew. But I never stepped in, never said anything. Maybe if I had, Victore would be here. As it is…I know that look in your eyes. You’re running from the same thing that sent my Victore over the edge.”

Eleanor bit her lip and slid a tray of bread out of the oven. She replaced it with a new one and began shaping dough for another batch of bread. “I really am twenty-three,” she said softly. “I wasn’t lying about that. But I’m not in university, haven’t been for three years. I’m running from my…husband.” She twisted the dough into perfectly even ropes, focusing on the work rather than the words coming out of her mouth. “That’s why I asked to be paid in cash—so he can’t trace my bank account. It wasn’t worth it to stay anymore, so I cut my hair and ran.”

“I will take care of you,” Madame Laurent said brusquely. “I lost one daughter. It will not happen again.”

Eleanor looked up. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. But we must work on your French. Nathalie and I will teach you. And I still must fix your hair.”

That evening, Nathalie joined them for dinner and watched as her mother clucked over Eleanor’s hair.

“Dear Elle Corner, what did you do to yourself?”  Madame Laurent sighed dramatically and carefully began snipping strands. “Conjugate aller for me.”

Eleanor recited the verb forms dutifully while Nathalie corrected her pronunciation.

This scene repeated itself night after night (minus Madame Laurent’s scarily sharp shears), as Eleanor began to spend six nights a week with Madame Laurent and Nathalie, practicing verbs and pronunciation, until her French was fluent and her accent declared flawless. In exchange, she taught Nathalie better English. As time wore on and she needed less help with her French, she used some of her savings to buy a laptop and enroll in online classes to get a teaching credential.

Life here in Gien with the Laurents was so different from life in London with Louis, and she loved every second of it. The bakery was hard work—she wasn’t trusted with the cakes and pastries yet, but she could handle bread fine and woke at four every morning to warm the ovens and start the dough—but it was worth it, mechanical work that strengthened her muscles and wiped her mind blank with exhaustion. She loved spending time with Nathalie, who was recently married and had a baby on the way.

Madame Laurent had a surprisingly filthy mouth and told dirty jokes at every opportunity. Eleanor laughed harder than she had in years. The first time she’d been entirely shocked at the sound of it as it spilled out of her mouth.

“I have not laughed in such a long time,” she explained in stuttering French to Madame Laurent, who wrapped her in a hug and pressed a kiss to Eleanor’s forehead. “It is amazing to be able to.”

“Then I will make you laugh as much as I can, dear Elle Corner,” Madame said with a kind smile, and proceeded to tell enough jokes that no work got done for the rest of the morning.

Even as she grew further and further away from her life in London, the ritzy parties and the red carpets, meeting celebrities and having custom cakes delivered for her birthday, Eleanor found she couldn’t escape it.

“Elle, this Eleanor Calder, she looks like you,” Nathalie said one Sunday, the one day a week they didn’t work. “You could be sisters!” Nathalie loved gossip magazines, and of course, two months after Eleanor’s wedding-that-wasn’t, there were still articles about Louis and his broken heart, and his runaway bride.

Eleanor laughed weakly, thanking the fact that her French was still not perfect as it disguised her racing mind. “That is plain nonsense, Nathalie. I would tell you something so important.”

“Yes, I know,” Nathalie said, resting a hand on her swollen belly. “But that poor man. She walked away from him at the altar—and no one’s heard from her since!” Nathalie sniffed and closed the magazine. “England.”

“ _I_  am from England, love,” Eleanor giggled, all too glad that the topic had shifted. “Not all of us are terrible.”

“No, but you moved to France, therefore you are smarter than anyone else in Britain.” Nathalie threw her arms around Eleanor’s neck. “Come now, help me paint the nursery!”

_—_

 Nathalie’s husband worked in Paris and was rarely home during weekdays, so when Nathalie went into labor, it was Eleanor who went with her and held her hand through nine hours of screaming pain. Nathalie’s husband was there by the end, but Eleanor was the third to hold baby Tristan, and promptly named the godmother.

Holding the little baby, she was reminded of what she could have had, and what she’d left behind, but marveled at the tiny miracle in her arms, a reminder that life could give the most beautiful gifts.

“Did you have a child with your husband?” Madame Laurent asked quietly, taking her grandson from Eleanor as Tristan’s parents kissed not far behind them, relieved that everything had ended alright. “If you need help getting your child to be legally yours…I will help you. Children should never be separated from their mothers.”

“No,” Eleanor said, smiling as Tristan stretched and yawned, then squalled for food. “But I always wanted children. He didn’t.”

Madame Laurent nodded and gave the baby back to his mother. “Do you regret leaving?” she asked. “If he was truly as bad as you have implied—I cannot let you go back in good conscience.”

“I’d never go back,” Eleanor replied. “Never. He took my life and ruined it—he never loved me, he always loved someone else more, his girlfriend before me and then his best friend. He controlled my life, isolated me from my friends, and I forgot who I was. I have never been happier than I am here. I just…I miss my family. And I want to fall in love again.” Eleanor sighed. “I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t. For your own safety—so he can’t find me.”

“You will, in time. And love…you’ll grow stronger and find better love. I thought my husband would be with me forever, but he died not so long ago. You and Nathalie…you are the reasons I am still functioning. I will help you, in any way you need.” Madame Laurent looked over at her daughter. “I would like you to stay.”

“I would like to stay as long as you will have me,” Eleanor admitted.

“Then stay you will. You are as much my daughter as Nathalie, Elle. And I hope someday you will be able to tell me everything.”

“I promise, as soon as I am able, I will.”

In that hospital room, with people who weren’t family but were, Eleanor had never felt more complete.

Maybe she’d be able to move on after all.

Of course, as much as Gien was a safe haven for her, it wasn’t perfect. She managed to live there for a year in relative peace, until one morning she opened the bakery doors to see Louis standing there.

She yelped and slammed the door, locking it.

Madame Laurent poked her head out of the kitchen. “Ellie?”

“He’s…he’s here,” Eleanor managed, peeking out the window to make sure it really was him and not some random stranger she’d slammed the door on. “He’s. He found me. I have to. I have to go.”

Madame Laurent looked grim. “Go, pack your bags. I will keep him from bothering you,” she said, and stepped out the door to go toe to toe with Louis Tomlinson. Eleanor honestly wasn’t sure who would win that fight, but she still had her bags packed and was out the back door before Louis had managed to get free of Madame Laurent.

She wandered after that, making a quick stop at the bank to empty her account and bundle it into the bottom of her suitcase before opening a new account under the name of Elizabeth Collins

Eleanor joined the Peace Core, working to help rebuild parts of the middle east after civil revolutions and war, and that was a whole new sort of experience.

She worked with them for a year, her hair tucked under a hijab in respect to social customs, and handled her power tools like she was born to them. She liked the work, the way she was bone-tired at the end of the day but still was excited for the next day no matter what had happened that particular day.

Somehow, she managed to bring her laptop and continue her online classes—she was almost halfway done with her credentials now—even though she didn’t always have reliable internet to send her papers in on time.

She formed fellowship with these people, who came from all sorts of backgrounds and lives, bent her head in prayer for the first time in five or six years, told her story with a sort of ease that had never come in Gien, did what she could and tried when she didn’t know how.

It was a year, a long, prosperous, exhausting year, and she loved it.

But Eleanor knew she couldn’t do this forever, even if she wanted to.

So she bid the group her farewell, went back to London and started looking for jobs in Australia and the US, anywhere she could get far away and try something new. It was pure luck that she chanced across the ad for a cook in a small town in Arizona, and even more luck they hired her.

She spent her first month adjusting and not talking to anyone, observing and learning their mannerisms.

That didn’t last long when the daughter of the ranch manager burst into her room one Saturday night and dragged Eleanor out.

“Come on, you’ve been holed up in here for far too long.” Cassidy Peterson reached down and pulled Eleanor to her feet, mindless of the book Eleanor had been reading. “It’s creeping everyone out. So come socialize, because you are invited to our sing-along tonight. Unless you’re too good for us, Miss London?”

“I’m not actually from London,” Eleanor protested, but she was all too willing to be pulled along and down the stairs.

“Whatever you say, London.”

The group gathered out back, everyone looking tired but happy.

“London, this is everyone. Everyone, this is London.”

“Elizabeth Collins, or Lizzie,” Eleanor corrected, laughing. “Cassidy refuses to acknowledge that I actually have a name.”

“Good to meetcha, Lizzie,” Mr Peterson said. “I was wondering when we’d figure out who was living in that spare bedroom.”

Eleanor smiled. “Sorry about that. I’m still dealing with culture shock. Arizona is a bit different from France, I can tell you that.”

“So you’re  _not_  from England?” Cassidy asked, flopping down into a spare chare and gesturing to the one beside her. Eleanor took it, sitting with delicate grace.

“Well, yes and no. I was born in England— _not_  London—but I’ve lived in France for the past three years.” If she was fudging times a little, no one would be the wiser, especially as there were no records of her anywhere and the Petersons weren’t the sort to go looking anyways. “I worked in a bakery with my aunt and cousin after my cousin gave birth to her son.”

“Sounds interesting!” Mrs Peterson chirped, and the weirdest thing was that Eleanor could tell Mrs Peterson actually meant it. “So that’s where you learned to bake like you do?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Eleanor said. “I’m learning more American recipes as I go, but I’m mostly picking stuff up on the fly. When you put up the ad for a cook, I picked up a few cookbooks and went from there.”

“We’re glad to have you,” Cassidy said cheerfully, and various people arranged around the fire called agreement. “And I’ll be honest, London—your cooking is a fair sight better than George’s was, I’ll tell you that.”

“Hey!” the man who was apparently George protested from the other side of the fire. “It wasn’t that bad!”

“George, most of what you cooked could apply for NATO membership and get it, no problem,” Cassidy deadpanned, and the entire group dissolved into laughter. “Or achieve sentience, one or the other.”

The night went on in a lively whirl of music, beer, and gossip. Everyone was a little wary around Eleanor, the new, unknown quantity, but they loosened up when Eleanor snagged a beer and revealed her rather dry sense of humor. Cassidy introduced everyone, usually with a funny anecdote attached and then proceeded to teach Eleanor about the difference between the American South and Arizona.

Things got more relaxed as people got more drunk, until business talk devolved entirely into a gossip session.

¨Did you hear?” Mrs Peterson asked, leaning forward so her elbows rested on her knees. “About Reann Tucker. She and her husband got into an out and out fight in the middle of Trader Joe’s!” she snorted. “I could’ve told Mark that Reann would be trouble. Apparently she was accusing him of cheating—with his dentist! Jealous young woman, honestly, but still.”

“He should put her over his knee and spank it right out of her,” one of the men—Eleanor wasn’t sure who they were—said. “Only way to fix a situation like that.” Eleanor paled and quietly excused herself, noticing a second too late that Cassidy was following her.

“He’s drunk, he doesn’t mean it,” Cassidy explained. “Don’t mind him.”

“I just don’t like the idea, is all. And besides, I saw this beautiful lady and had to meet her,” Eleanor explained, gesturing to the horse. They fell quiet—not silent, the world was too noisy with insects and the horses and the people back at the bonfire.

“Why’re you here?” Cassidy finally drawled, leaning against the fence while Eleanor stroked the painted mare’s nose.

Eleanor shrugged. “A lot of reasons.”

“But the main one,” Cassidy pressed. “Most people come for a week, decide they don’t like it. You’ve been here for a month and no one knows anything about you except your name is Elizabeth Collins and you showed up out of the blue one day.”

Eleanor sighed and turned to face Cassidy. “I can’t tell you. I wish I could, but I can’t. I’m not a criminal or anything, don’t worry. I just…don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

Cassidy smiled and tucked her hand into Eleanor’s elbow. “Let’s go teach you how to shoot a gun, Elizabeth.”

“Now? At past nine at night? We have to be up by six tomorrow.”

Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Fine. Spoilsport. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I’m teaching you to shoot a gun, and you’re going to teach me how to make that bread you make on Sundays.”

“Deal.”

The next morning, after all the necessary chores, Cassidy took Eleanor down to the range.

“You know, I get a bit of what you’re going through—not exactly the same, though,” Cassidy said, correcting Eleanor’s grip on the gun. “You haven’t met Evan yet, have you?”

Eleanor shook her head and tried to maintain her grip. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m thirty-eight. He’s twenty-three. We’re married, and I’m expecting our second child.” Eleanor blinked, flashing back to Harry Styles and Caroline Flack. She’d only caught the tail end of that, but it hadn’t been pretty.

“And that’s a problem?”

“We met when he was fourteen and started dating when he was sixteen. We got married when he was twenty.” Cassidy fiddled with a bullet, rolling her eyes.

“How is that the same?” Eleanor asked, her arm muscles straining. She’d gotten strong in Gien and even more so working with the Peace Core, and working here on the ranch had helped maintain that strength, but this was an entirely different kind of muscular exhaustion.

“People say things they think are jokes, and it hurts.” Cassidy shrugged and adjusted Eleanor’s grip again. “Seriously, Elizabeth, your left hand should be…” Eleanor followed Cassidy’s instructions, following direction until Cassidy was satisfied enough with Eleanor’s grip on the gun to let her begin work with a loaded one. They’d gone over care and loading before Eleanor had been taught to grip an empty weapon.

“It’s going to be loud, so we’ll talk after. First, we’ll go through step by step, then you can put the Mufflers on and actually fire it.”

“Why don’t I get the cool earplug things like you do?” Eleanor asked, knowing she looking petulant and not caring. The Mufflers were giant soundproof headphones that had apparently been decorated over the years, with everything from sequins and Barbie stickers to cartoon penises and a ‘hi my name is’ sticker.

“Because  _everyone_  starts out with the Mufflers. And I’ve been doing this since I was eight years old. When you’ve been shooting guns for thirty years, you can get the cool earplug things too.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes, loaded the gun, put on the Mufflers and took aim.

She missed the target by a whole meter.

The only good thing about the Mufflers, she thought, was that she couldn’t hear Cassidy laughing. It took three hours and a lot of practice before she even  managed to clip the target at the edge.

—

It was Eleanor’s turn to laugh when she roused the other woman out of bed at four in the morning and corralled her into the kitchen to learn how to bake bread.

“You are a cruel woman,” Cassidy moaned, staring at her empty coffee cup mournfully. “Who willingly gets up at four in the fucking morning?”

Eleanor hadn’t, at first, had hated it as much as Cassidy did now, but after long practice and over a year of getting up that early, it was comforting to be awake before the rest of the world. And so, Cassidy’s pain was hilarious. Eleanor felt a pang of guilt at that and made up for it by pouring more coffee into Cassidy’s mug. “Once you’re awake, we’ll start the bread,” she said kindly. “I’d prefer to start now, but I can chop some vegetables for today’s dinner.”

It takes three cups of coffee and ten minutes for Cassidy to regain something resembling human consciousness. “I can feel my IQ rising with the caffeine,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and struggling with a yawn. “Okay, riddle me this, Bakerwoman, how the hell does four feel so much earlier than six?”

“Might be the lack of sun,” Eleanor said breezily, and grinned in a rather evil manner. “Baking time!” Madame Laurent had made it very clear that not everyone took to baking the way Eleanor had, and it became very clear very quickly that Cassidy was not a gifted baker.

“How is it you can shoot a gun and bake bread, and I can’t?” Cassidy demanded, scowling at her mangled dough. “Like, what the actual fuck?”

“I can’t shoot a gun, not nearly so well as you can, and you can ride a horse,” Eleanor countered. “I tried and fell off. Twice. Everyone laughed.”

“You’re not Wonderwoman!” Cassidy cheered and wrapped her arms around Eleanor. “I was wondering.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.” Eleanor neatly ducked out of Cassidy’s hold. “I’m far from perfect. I’m just good at hiding the things I’m not good at. No, get your sticky hands away from me!”

Cassidy grinned and chucked a bit of dough at Eleanor, the sticky globule tangling in Eleanor’s hair. “I’ll have to get you back for that,” Eleanor warned. Cassidy’s grin stretched wider and she shot Eleanor the middle finger.

“Have to catch me first!” she yelled, and it was war.

This must be what friendship felt like, Eleanor thought. She’d had friends as a little girl, but once she’d grown into a teenager, her friends had become faker and faker, until she’d ended up with Louis and his friends and forgotten what real friendship felt like. Nathalie had been a friend, yes, but language and work and motherhood had separated them, until they were more like sisters than friends. Cassidy was older by nearly fifteen years, and a mother like Nathalie, but she had a lighter spirit and spoke the same language. She had a ridiculous sense of humor that aligned perfectly with Eleanor’s dry wit, and she was ridiculously protective, although she teased Eleanor mercilessly and tried to set her up with guys. It was nice, Eleanor thought.

They went to a concert together, and it was more fun than Eleanor remembered concerts could be. She guessed that was part for the course when you actually liked the band playing and weren’t there just because your boyfriend or fiancée was performing. It was fun to cut loose for an evening, to drink beer and flirt with hot guys, and ward off the creepers who kept perving on the now obviously-pregnant Cassidy.

Eleanor wondered why all of her close friends seemed to be pregnant, and then regretted it when Cassidy had a late term miscarriage, after a horse kicked her in the stomach. That had been a tense ambulance ride, Eleanor the only one Cassidy would allow with her in the ambulance since her husband wasn’t available, a three hour drive away at a horse show.

Cassidy went through a rough patch of postpartum and Eleanor stayed by her side through it.

Part of Eleanor never wanted to leave New Hope Ranch, Arizona, USA. Her accent began to fade and she was comfortable being Lizzie Collins, the charming cook who took no guff from any of the men on the ranch, even less from the women. She liked mornings there, where the sun was a brilliant orange as it rose above a pink and blue horizon, she liked the steady pace of cooking and how no one complained if she messed up. She liked being teased by the children running underfoot, and some sort of romance started with Cooper, one of the riding instructors. She liked Mr Peterson trying to teach her to ride a horse, and Cassidy teasing her mercilessly when she fell off time after time. Using her laptop, she continued her online certification to become a French teacher under her real name, and that was something she felt useful at. It wasn’t home like London or Gien was, but it was still her home, and she loved it.

The other part of her said there was no way this could last. She wasn’t American, and her visa would run out soon enough, not to mention that she was living under a false name with fake documents. And if she was really skeptical that day, she knew it wouldn’t be too hard to find her, not really.

She finished her degree, receiving a diploma for Eleanor Laurent in her PO box in town.

She’d been at New Hope Ranch for eight months when it came time to leave.

Eleanor didn’t leave Arizona because of Louis per se; if she happened to see a tweet that he was flying to Arizona the next day, it didn’t influence her decision any more than the one she’d already made.

Arizona had taught her all it could; it was time to move on.

She packed up her bags, didn’t say goodbye, and set off for the airport.

Instead of finding somewhere to go right away, she wandered. The US was a big country, with so much to see, and the world so much larger. She had some money saved up, from her jobs and her savings, so she decided to take a trip.

She chose South America and found herself in Brazil. She played the tourist for a week, using her real name and real ID, then skipped over to Peru, because she´d always wanted to see Macchu Picchu.

Feeling reckless, she tweeted on her old account as if nothing had ever changed, and emailed her parents to let them know she was alive.

Tabloid articles popped up—even two years later, Louis Tomlinson’s wedding-that-wasn’t and his string of failed romances made headlines, especially when his former fiancée vanished off the map—and she ignored them.

She returned to England long enough to change her name, graduate, and get a new passport. She figured no one would look for her in the place she ran from, and once, she even attended a One Direction concert just because, her hair tucked up under a beanie and fake glasses resting on her nose.

She doesn’t know why she picked Australia to go next, but she did, and once there, things began to fall into place.

Sydney wasn’t really the next place Eleanor planned to live, it just sort of…happened.

Just like she hadn’t ever planned to live with Nora Moore, but here she was, sharing a flat with an excitable just-out-of-uni girl who tended alarmingly towards the fangirl side of the spectrum. Nora was plump and cheerful, with blonde hair streaked through with blue, and a full six inches shorter than Eleanor.

It had been a complete chance meeting that found them together, Nora being stood up for a date at a local bar, and Eleanor happening to be there.

They decided to start talking, and soon Eleanor found out that Nora had a spare room to rent.

“So you’re looking for a roommate,” Eleanor said, sipping at her beer. Nora shrugged.

“Yeah, my last one was a bit shit and I kicked him out. Why do you ask?”

“I’m looking for a place to live.” Eleanor set her beer down. “You’re looking for a roommate. Maybe it’ll work?”

“I don’t even know you!” Nora protested, and side-eyed Eleanor suspiciously. “But you seem nice enough. Go on, tell me why it’d work.”

“My name is Eleanor Laurent—you knew that—and I’m twenty-six years old. I’m not actually a redhead, I’m brunette, I just like the color. I’m a French teacher, or I will be in two weeks when I start at the International School here in two weeks—and I’ll be able to pay rent, as long as it’s not ridiculous. I’m not hugely obtrusive, and yes, I have had roommates before, but I like getting up early and I have a vaguely worrying caffeine addiction, I’m horrible at cleaning and I hate cameras, but I like cooking and I take care of my own things, and if you think it’s not working out I can pack up and be out as soon as you say so.” she shrugged. “I’m used to living on the go.”

“Well, hell, when you put it that way,” Nora said, grinning widely. “I’m Nora Moore, nineteen. Natural blonde but the blue is dye. I’m a uni student—poli-sci-slash-psych double major, it’s awesome, I want to get involved in government. I’m a night owl, smoke, and poke my nose into everyone’s business. I’m a fangirl part time, tumblr is badass, and if you play One Direction in our flat, I will kick you out onto the street. Think you can live with that?”

“Sounds good to me,” Eleanor said, struggling to keep a straight face. “Wait, did us meeting in a bar lead to a living arrangement?”

“I think so,” said Nora. “Eleanor Laurent, I look forward to living with you.”

The first few months of living together was strange, to say the least. They had opposite schedules and rarely saw each other.

And after that, it was simply a matter of clashing social engagements—when Nora was in, Eleanor was out. When Eleanor was out, Nora was in.

“Okay, this is ridiculous,” Nora finally said on a night they were both home. She dropped her bag on the kitchen table just as Eleanor put a plate of pasta and salad down. “Ooh, is there any left?”

“On the stove, help yourself,” Eleanor said, reaching for the pitcher of iced tea in the back of the fridge. “What’s ridiculous?”

“We’ve been roomies for two months and we never see each other. THa’ts stupid.” Nora scooped up a pile of noodles and wrinkled her nose at the salad but served herself some anyways. “Like, I know what kind of shampoo you use and that you eat way too much salad, that you’re ridiculously neat about grading but you hate washing dishes, and all that, but do you have friends or anything? You’re like the most boring person ever and I will not be roomies with a drag.”

“I’m busy with work,” Eleanor demurred. “I’ll be more social once I’m more settled in.”

“You’ve been here two months,” Nora accused. She took a huge bite of pasta. “This is orgasmic, oh my god. How is it you can make the best pasta in the world but you didn’t know what fairy bread was?”

Eleanor opened her mouth to defend herself but Nora shoved a forkful of salad into Eleanor’s mouth and continued speaking.

“But you’ve been here two months. You’re not going to get any more settled in than you already are.  Come on, let’s go out tonight! My favorite club is having a costume night, and I’m going and so are my friends. Come ad meet some people! Let loose a bit!”

Eleanor hadn’t been out clubbing since Louis. Nora seemed to sense her hesitance.

“It’ll be fun,” she said, pouring herself some iced tea. “Everyone’s been absolutely  _dying_  to meet my flatmate. I’m pretty sure Alan just wants to make sure you’re not a psychopath come to kill me, is all. And you can have some fun, forget all about the douche waffle.” At Eleanor’s baffled look, Nora waved her hand dismissively. “You’re getting over some sort of bad breakup, like really bad. I know the signs, you need to cut loose. And did I mention? It’s costume night, and with your cute bob, Alice owes me a favor, and she’s got the cutest little flapper dress that’ll work perfectly for you!”

Eleanor caved.

—

Going dancing turned out to be exactly what Eleanor needed.

Nora’s friends were perfectly lovely, uni students only slightly older than Nora—the closest to Eleanor’s own twenty-six years was Marcus, who was twenty-three—but she found she didn’t mind because they were fun people to hang around. Nora’s group of friends mostly consisted of boys and Nora took great glee in telling Eleanor everyone’s life stories; Alan, her best friend not counting Eleanor (in Nora’s own words) was a tall dark-skinned boy who could have passed as a relative to Zayn and was clearly in love with Nora, although too shy to say anything (Nora didn’t say that, but Eleanor had eyes, even if Nora apparently didn’t); Aiden and Marcus were dating and had been dating for three months, much to the dismay of the rest of their friends, who clearly thought they looked too much like twins for anyone else’s comfort; Alice (whose real name was Chinese and no one could actually pronounce correctly and she therefore simply went by Alice), who had loaned Eleanor the flapper dress and was currently dressed up as the Queen of Hearts; and Harpreet, who informed Eleanor he was only there as a designated driver because the shit his friends got up to when drunk was quite frankly ridiculous.

They danced and drank and Eleanor had fun, until she and Nora tried to climb the stairs up to their flat and Eleanor tripped, falling down the stairs and splitting open the skin on her forehead.

Nora called Harpreet, and the three of them drove to the hospital so Eleanor could get stitches.

“I’m so sorry,” Nora said once Eleanor was all bandaged up and under observation for a concussion. “If I hadn’t dragged you out, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

“Well, you know what they say,” Eleanor said, sitting up in the hospital bed. “You can’t be friends until you’ve gone to A&E together.”

Nora burst out laughing.

Friday nights became Nora and Eleanor’s going out nights. On Fridays, they met up with the rest of their friends at various clubs and bars, dressing up and letting loose a little. Saturday mornings they nursed hangovers and  watched cartoons and gossiped. It was an easy, familiar routine that Eleanor appreciated.

“Eleanor? Eleanor Laurent?” she heard a familiar voice and turned to see a man she vaguely recognized; It was one of the other teachers at her school—god, what was his name? Thomas…

“Thomas Hartley!” she said triumphantly. “Hello, Mr Hartley, how are you?”

“Call me Tom,” he shouted.

Across the bar, Nora was winking at her and shooting her a double thumbs up.

“So what’s a pretty lady like you doing out here alone?”

Eleanor giggled. “Are you going to use cheesy chat-up lines too?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Only if you want me to see if I can make cheesier ones than you,” Eleanor said decisively, and began to fall for Thomas Hartley.

At the end of the  night, after three beers and more chat up lines than Eleanor wanted to admit, Eleanor picked up her purse, whispered out a quick arrangement with Nora—who would spend the night at Aiden’s,  _for the greater good of getting Eleanor laid_ , in Nora’s own words—and took Tom back to her flat.

It worked out for three months, until Eleanor found out that Tom was married and she was the affair.

She broke it off in the middle of a nice dinner and they ended up being thrown out for fighting—Eleanor was well and truly pissed he was married and she was the mistress, and he was pissed she’d figured it out. She stormed home in a huff, leaving Thomas Hartley behind.

“Why do I always end up with the fucked up assholes?” she yelled, slamming the door behind her. Nora looked up from where she was typing on her laptop and followed Eleanor into the kitchen, where she watched as Eleanor picked up a picture frame and hurled it against the wall. “First Louis Tomlinson, fucking abusive idiot, then Cooper McNevan, who was sexist but a good fuck, and now Tomas Fucking Hartley, who’s married! God, I swear Louis was the start of the end, fucking stupid popstar and his boyfriend.”

“ _You’re_  Eleanor Calder?”

Then Eleanor realized what she’d said to Nora and bolted out the door, finding an empty bench in a nearby park.

“Hey,” Nora said, knocking against Eleanor’s shoulder. “I’m not judging you. I’m just surprised is all. I mean, Eleanor Calder, good God.”

“Yeah, well.” Eleanor kicked her shoes off, dropping them in a neat pile under the bench. “Everyone’s got secrets.”

“But you don’t have to have them anymore,” Nora pointed out. “I mean, look at you. You’re oceans and continents away from him, you’ve made a new life, you’re brave and not at all the girl I used to hate.”

Eleanor gave Nora a questioning glance. The blonde had the grace to blush as she dug in her pockets for her lighter and cigarettes. “I was  a Larry shipper. But we don’t talk about that anymore. It was a period of my life where I was a stupid fangirl and we’re just going to pretend it never happened.” She light her cigarette and offered one to Eleanor, who accepted. “But you…I mean, you’re Eleanor Laurent—Hey, did you get married?”

“Did I  _what_?” Eleanor nearly choked, and it wasn’t on her cigarette smoke. Out of any question Nora might have asked her, that was not one she expected.

“Get married. Your name’s not Calder anymore—I’ve seen your passport.”

“Nah, I just changed it. Not too difficult, if you know what you’re doing.”

Nora smiled. “So you’re not Eleanor Calder, ex-fiancé of Louis Tomlinson…you literally remade yourself into Eleanor Laurent, French Teacher extraordinaire?”

“Just like you’re Nora Moore, waitress and roommate and intern extraordinaire?”

Nora laughed. “Yeah, exactly. I mean, you didn’t like who you were, so you literally remade yourself until you were happy. That’s pretty impressive, you’ve got to admit.”

“I guess,” Eleanor said. She shrugged. “Doesn’t feel like much.”

“It sort of is, you know? Anyways. You’re going to find the perfect guy someday, and he won’t be an asshole.” Nora scowled. “I will fucking mare sure of it. You’re family now, you realize my mum is totally going to adopt you, right?”

“She is?” Eleanor blinked; she’d never even met Mrs Moore yet.

“Oh, yeah. Probably every way but legally, and legally if she can figure out the paperwork.” Nora exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Damnit. Still not a ring. How the fuck do you  _do_  that?”

Eleanor smirked and blew a ring. “Practice. But your mum…really?”

“Eleanor, you realize this is your home now, right?”

“Is it?” Eleanor leaned forward, avoiding looking at Nora. “I haven’t had a home in…ever, I don’t think.”

“As long as you’ll have us, we’ll keep you. I think my mum’s planning our wedding just so you’ll be in the family.”

Eleanor snorted. “I hope she knows I don’t swing that way.”

“Not important—she wants you to have family.” Nora rolled her eyes. “I mean…I thought you were disowned anyways.”

“Not legally,” Eleanor admitted. “My biological family couldn’t find me to finalize the paperwork. But I’ve been written out of wills and off medical emergency cards and put on the ‘do not talk about’ list, so that’s pretty much the same thing. I changed my name, and that was sort of the final straw. But…I mean, I’ve got family, I guess. The Laurents in France, Antonia wanted to adopt me and she was more like a mum to me than my real one was. And then there’s my godson, Tristan, and then the Petersons in Texas.”

“And now us,” Nora chipped in. “The Moores.”

“I guess,” Eleanor said, and smiled. “You took that a lot better than I thought you would have.”

“What, my mom adopting you?”

“No, my history.”

Nora shrugged, blowing smoke out her nostrils. “Everyone’s got history. Now come on, forget about the asshat and let’s go pack up for Christmas.”

Upon setting foot in the Moore house, Nora’s forceful personality was explained. She had four older brothers, a host of male cousins (mostly elder, with three younger), and exactly two female figures in her life—her mother and her paternal uncle’s wife, both of whom were perfectly able to corral the males in her family.

Christmas went quickly. Nora had informed all her brothers and cousins that Eleanor was just out of a rough breakup and if anyone bothered her they’d have Nora to reckon with. As a result, all of the Moore family males were on their best behavior the whole holiday and while they flirted with her, Eleanor knew it wasn’t serious, just part of the fun.

Mrs Moore turned out to be a matronly woman who really was determined to take care of both Eleanor and Nora. Eleanor was reminded of Madame Laurent, but the way Mrs Moore attempted to match each of her sons up with Eleanor was nothing like Madame Laurent.

They went caroling and made eggnog and cookies, went to Mass as a family, and when it came time for Eleanor and Nora to make the four hour drive back to their flat, they had several tins of leftovers forced on them.

Another year passed; Nora passed her exams with average grades and moved up a year; she and Eleanor went on vacation to the seaside for a week; Eleanor got a new batch of students and started tutoring in the afternoons when fall came around.

Life went on, and Eleanor was content.

Until one day, she came home and found Louis Tomlinson sitting in the middle of her flat.

She shrieked and turned tail, sprinting down the stairs and finding herself in the middle of a park.

With shaking hands, she dialed Nora and stammered out an explanation of the situation.

Eleanor wrapped her cardigan more snugly around herself and let herself cry—in fear, in relief, in horror, in confusion. She was probably attracting unwanted attention, but she didn’t know what else to do.

“You okay?” a voice said, and Eleanor looked up to see Nora standing there. “You look like shit, El.”

“I have to end it,” Eleanor murmured. “He’s here, he’s waiting, and I have to talk to him, or else this is never going to end.”

Nora sat next to Eleanor, and handed the older woman a mug of coffee, cradling her own close to her chest. “Where is he?”

“In the flat,” Eleanor admitted, getting her breathing under control. “I want to tell him to fuck off, but I don’t know how.”

“Why are you so scared of him, anyways?”

Eleanor shrugged. “He was my life for four years. Maybe longer. I mean. I’m twenty-eight, Nora. I was twenty-three when I left him. For four years, he was my life, and for five more, he was the monster hiding in the closet ready to eat me. He terrifies me, and I have to tell him to go away, or else…it’ll just get worse..”

“So…practice, talk to me,” Nora coaxed. “Not to him, to me. Tell me what you want to tell him.”

And so Eleanor talked.

She spoke about early mornings in France, about a bakery and a family that had lost a father and a daughter in less than two years, but had gained a sister and a son just as quickly. About how she’d relearned the meaning of independence there, and how she hadn’t wanted to leave. She spoke of how there were days when she hadn’t wanted to get out of bed without him there to remind her of what was going to happen that day, how she missed him even though she knew he was bad for her and would always be bad for her.

She talked about her adventures in Europe and Asia, how she’d tucked her short hair under a scarf and travelled with the Peace Core, how she’d left behind all means of contact and simply vanished for four months, learning the value of human life and simple joys. How she’d been so tired and missed having sturdy friends that would always be there. How she’d wake up after full nights of sleep and still be exhausted, but the work was so worth it.

She told about long, exhausting days with the Petersons, about learning to fire a gun and cooking simple, comfortable things, how she’d learned family was blood, yes, but it was a lot of other things too.

She talked about flying to Sydney and then changing her name. She talked about how she’d met Nora by mistake and how it was the best mistake of her life. How she’d dared to fall in love again, three years after everything that had destroyed her, and how she’d had her heart broken again. How she’d met Scott again after all these years and thought it was fate, but then found out it was nothing of the sort.

Eleanor talked about how she’d thought she was finally home, too. About how she would have to leave now, and how she didn’t know where she could possibly go, what she could ever do to make her life her own again.

When she was done, their coffee was cold and Nora was somber. “So are you going to deal with him? Do what he wants?”

Eleanor immediately shook her head. “No,” she said firmly. “It’s been five years. If he wants to chase me away, he can fucking try. I’ll get a restraining order.”

Nora looked proud now. “I’ll be right there with you,” she said. “You do know this is your home now, right?”

“You’ve asked me that before.” Eleanor looked at Nora and smiled. “It became home a year or so ago? Maybe?”

And it was true. Here, Eleanor had friends and a job she loved, a permanent address and one of the best friends she could have ever asked for. The Petersons will never know what happened to her, but the Laurents wrote regularly. She had a home and a roommate she actually liked, and a family that expected her for Christmas. She wasn’t not married, and she didn’t have kids, but she was dating again and she had time anyways, time that was all hers and no one else’s.

She wondered who she’d be if she hadn’t realized when she did, if she’d gone on and married Louis, how long she’d have put up with his cheating and his controlling, and wondered if what she’d given up was worth what she’d gained.

Of course it was, she thought. Five years of running was more than enough. She’d faced demons bigger than Louis Tomlinson, and she need closure.

“No, of course I’m home,”  Eleanor said aloud. “Where is he? I’ve got an ex-boyfriend to read the riot act.”

Nora broke into a grin. “Right this way, Eleanor Laurent.”


End file.
